“I shall not. I shall tell her that unless she hears from me within two weeks, she may know that I am down with a threatened attack of scarlet fever. She has a horror of illness, and wild horses couldn’t drag her here after that. But I shall have an exciting time with my sire, if he ever finds it out!” “Humph, your father may never find it out,” said the girl with the eyeglasses; “and if he did, you could simply say that you really thought you were getting scarlet fever, and only concealed the fact from him to save him anxiety.” “Pardon me, but you forget that I am a younger daughter. Papa has already had so much experience with my sisters that I have to be very careful in my explanations. This thing of being the third daughter is as bad as marrying a widower—worse, for that is voluntary.” “Not always—on the part of the widower,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Dear, dear, how queer some things are! I know a pair of twins, and one of them is called an old maid, the other a young widow. If anybody can explain—” “Pshaw, I know a brother and sister who have hair of the same identical shade. He is called red-headed while she is a Titian blonde,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “And I went to school with a girl who was always called snub-nosed by everybody but the man she married,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “he said her nose was ‘tip-tilted, like the petal of a flower.’ Can you explain that?” “Yes,” said the president, shortly, “she has money. Oh, girls, I went to the photographer’s last week, and I haven’t had the courage even to snub my sister-in-law since I got the proofs. Indeed, sometimes I almost feel grateful to Tom for marrying me—though of course I don’t let him know that. You have no idea how I felt when—” “Oh, yes, I have,” said the blue-eyed girl, with a shudder. “I once knew an awfully nice man, who turned out to be an amateur photographer. He took two hundred and seventy-five pictures of me one summer, and I used to know just who my enemies were. They would pretend that they recognized me in them all!” “That’s nothing,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I once appeared as Cinderella at a charity entertainment, and an amateur photographer took a picture of me in costume. My foot was thrust forward, and oh, girls, it looked the size of a pumpkin. And the photographer actually took credit to himself because the face was an excellent likeness!” “I was once photographed by an amateur,” said the brown-eyed blonde; “he said my picture was his masterpiece. I always keep it on my dressing table during Lent,” she added. “I once knew an amateur photographer quite well,” said the girl with classic profile, “but for each photograph he took of me I made one of him!” “With the result—” said the president.